Slightly Less Sure of the Parrots
by RoaringMice
Summary: There are reasons why Malcolm hates parties. Written for " 'tis but a scratch" month.
1. Chapter 1

_Written for: 'tis but a scratch month_

_Warnings: Very mild swears_

x-x

**ARTHUR:**

Now stand aside, worthy adversary.

**BLACK KNIGHT:**

'Tis but a scratch.

**ARTHUR:**

A scratch? Your arm's off!

**BLACK KNIGHT:**

No, it isn't.

**ARTHUR:**

Well, what's that, then?

**BLACK KNIGHT:**

I've had worse.

x-x

Malcolm shrugged into his jacket, hands smoothing down the dark material as he gave himself the once-over in his mirror. His sister had sent him the coat, saying that the black of the leather would set off the blue of his eyes. He wasn't quite sure what she was on about, but the thing did fit, and Hoshi had told everyone that tonight was for casual clothing – no uniforms allowed – so here he was. He tugged down the steel-blue tee shirt, another present from Madeline, and ran a hand through his hair, mussing it a bit. Might as well go for the rakish… Oh, exactly who was he kidding? He rolled his eyes at his reflection, and combed his hair firmly back into place. He was about to take off the jacket when his door chime went.

He opened it to reveal Trip there in the corridor. Trip seemed to have taken Hoshi at her word, and had pulled out what Malcolm assumed to be his best (as if there could be a best, when one was discussing Trip's wardrobe) orange-parrot-printed, bright blue, short sleeved shirt. Hairy legs revealed by his shorts, he was also wearing orange flip-flops. With white socks. Malcolm closed his eyes against the vision. When he opened them again, he purposefully focused on Trip's face, rather than his outfit. "Interesting shirt," he said, feeling the need to fill the silence.

Trip smiled coyly. "I know how much you like my shirts."

Malcolm raised a brow, and Trip laughed.

"I had mama mail me this one special." Trip stepped into the room, the door closing behind him. "Blue and orange," he said as if Malcolm should know what that meant.

Malcolm stared, knowing that eventually, silence would win out.

"U of F," Trip said expectantly.

"Ah," Malcolm replied, nodding as if he understood.

When Malcolm didn't bite, Trip went on. "University of Florida. They're the school colours."

"Ah," Malcolm said again. The Xindi had destroyed much of Florida, Trip's home state. His wearing of the uni's colours was appropriate, considering the occasion; although Malcolm was slightly less sure of the parrots.

Malcolm's thoughts were interrupted when Trip said, "You look… Hmm…" Trip gave Malcolm an appraising stare.

Malcolm stood there, suddenly feeling like a complete git. Between the jacket and the shirt and the jeans he'd put on, "It's not quite me."

"Nah, I like it," Trip said. He cocked his head. "It's just…" He stepped forward with his hand upraised, but he hesitated just as he reached Malcolm. "You mind?" he asked, suddenly seeming tentative.

"Mind?" Malcolm asked, no idea what Trip was talking about.

Trip reached out and, with deliberate force, tousled Malcolm's hair. He stepped back and gave Malcolm the once-over. "Better," he said with finality.

Malcolm raised his hand to his hair, but Trip stopped him with an, "Ah-ah-ah!" and an upraised finger. "Looks good." He smiled. "Goes with the jacket."

Malcolm huffed a laugh. "I'll defer to you in consideration of your mastery of all things fashion."

"As well you should," Trip said with a merry twinkle in his eye. "Let's get going."

"Yes," Malcolm replied, waving Trip toward the door. After all, the sooner there, the sooner done.

God, but he hated parties.

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_More to come..._


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks so much for your comments. Here's the next section._

x-x

When they reached the mess, the party obviously was already in full swing. Malcolm made that brilliant deduction from:

1) the fact that as soon as they approached the door, one of the MACOs stumbled out of it, laughing and followed by thrown streams of confetti, and

2) the drink that flew from said MACO's hand as she fell, which, by luck or fate, ended up splashing red, potent-smelling something across the front of Trip's shirt.

The only thing that spared Malcolm's own share was his quick backstep, which caused him to crash down on top of the MACO. Still, better to find oneself sitting on top of an attractive and buff MACO than to find oneself covered in drink.

"Sorry!" both Malcolm and the MACO – Martins? Malcolm thought – said hastily from where they'd fallen to the floor.

"Are you all right?" Martins asked – to Trip or to him, Malcolm wasn't sure. But Malcolm did take that opportunity to slide from the MACO's legs and onto the deck.

"I'm fine," Malcolm said. He looked up to where Trip stood, only to find his friend staring down at his shirt, disappointment creasing his brow. "Commander?" he asked.

"It's all right," Trip said, sounding disappointed. "It's just that the other one was kind of flashy."

"The other one?" Malcolm asked from where he sat.

"My mom sent me two." Trip laughed and exclaimed, "Wait 'til you see it!" as he took off down the hall at a near-run.

"His shirt was blue with orange parrots, right?" Martins asked from her position beside him on the deck.

Malcolm nodded.

Martins gave out a low whistle. "I can only imagine the other one," she said. She stood and brushed herself off, then offered a hand to Malcolm.

Malcolm took it, and Martins pulled him to standing.

"Thank you, Corporal," he said, making to slide his hand from her grip.

She didn't let go. "Melissa," she replied. She pointed to the door, upon which was a very large, hand-written sign which read, "First names only. Please leave ranks at the door."

"Oh," Malcolm said. He smiled awkwardly. "Melissa."

"No problem, Malcolm," she replied, giving his hand a final squeeze before she released it. She strode to the door, which opened in a rush of noise and activity. Just as she was about to step through, she shot back over her shoulder, "By the way, nice hair." Then she disappeared through the doorway.

Malcolm groaned. He should never have listened to Trip. He took a step toward the door, and then stopped. Actually, if he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn Melissa was hitting on him. Hmm… He chuckled quietly. Perhaps his sister had been right about the outfit after all.

Closing his eyes for a moment, he took a deep breath, and then he too stepped through the doorway.

He stumbled to a halt just inside the entrance, staring around him in amazement. This was quite… something. He blinked, but it didn't get better.

The room was packed with people, and festooned with party decorations. There were balloons floating along the ceiling, dark blue cloths on each table, and someone had sprinkled silver glitter on their surfaces – reminding him almost, but not quite, of the galaxy around them as imagined by a five year old.

Malcolm stepped to the nearest wall, fingering the stuff hanging from it. The quartermaster had stores of glitter? And streamers…? No; in reality, the streamers were the shiny material they'd used as emergency blankets before the last restocking, cut into strips and draped along the ceiling and partly down the walls… His gaze moved up… And someone had hung white fairy lights at the ceiling, creating a –

"Magical, right?" Hoshi said from nearby.

His gaze snapped to meet hers. "Yes, quite." His gaze continued on. His crewmates and the MACOs were crowded together, drinking and talking while music swirled and spun around them, laughter arcing above. It was magical, in its own way. Malcolm couldn't help but smile. The festive atmosphere was catching, and appropriate. They'd finally defeated the Xindi, and this was the first time since before the MACOs had come aboard that they could truly relax. Not that there wouldn't be other threats. But now, for this moment, they'd chosen to put that aside, and celebrate.

Hoshi took a step back from him, as if to see him better. "You look good."

"Erm… thank you," he replied, feeling ill at ease.

"Sort of… James Bond crossed with, I don't know… a knight in shining armour or something. Very…" she pursed her lips, thinking, "…urban hip."

At that point, Malcolm cast a pointed look to the drink in Hoshi's hand. "How much of that have you had?"

Hoshi rolled her eyes. "I give you a compliment, and therefore I must be drunk?" She smiled softly, and shrugged. "It's just nice to see you out of uniform, is all." She leaned in toward him, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. "It's at this point that you compliment my dress or my hair or something, Malcolm."

Malcolm closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sigh. She was right. No wonder he hadn't had a date in who knew how long. He was awful at this, and this was Hoshi, someone he'd known for four years and considered a friend; imagine how well he might do with someone he didn't know as well. "I'm sorry, yes," he said. "You do look lovely," he added, and she did – her hair was hanging loose down her back, her red dress making it seem even darker.

"Do you dance?" Hoshi asked.

"Pardon?" he said, surprised by her question.

"Do. You. Dance?" Hoshi asked, enunciating each word.

"Dance…?" Malcolm said, listening to the music's thumping beat. "I'm rubbish at this sort of dancing."

Hoshi's brow crinkled. "So is there a type of dancing that you are good at?"

Malcolm felt himself blushing.

"Malcolm…" Hoshi said, a wide smile breaking across her features. "Just what sort of dancing are we talking about, here?"

"Ballroom," Malcolm said in a low voice. His eyes shifted about the room, searching for an excuse. "But there's no space."

"Ah, but there is," Hoshi said, waving toward the far end of the room. And there, to Malcolm's chagrin, there was indeed a small bit of space being used as a dance floor, and several people, erm… he supposed they were dancing.

"The music…" he said lamely, knowing he'd already lost this battle.

Hoshi nodded sagely. "Again, not a problem." She grabbed his hand and tugged him through the crowd and over to the dance floor. "Maestro?" she shouted out as she slid her drink onto a nearby table.

Malcolm saw Corporal McKenzie's ponytail pop up over the heads of the crowd. "You called, madam?" she said, standing on tip-toe to be seen.

"I did indeed," Hoshi answered merrily. "A waltz, if you please?"

"A waltz," McKenzie replied, looking puzzled.

Hoshi's eyes widened expectantly, and McKenzie looked to Malcolm for help. Malcolm simply shrugged.

"All right," McKenzie said, drawing the words out doubtfully. Malcolm thought he heard her call out to Travis for help, but as McKenzie's head disappeared back into the crowd, Hoshi grabbed Malcolm's hands and pulled him forward and onto the dance floor. Knowing there was nothing else for it, and suddenly grateful for the fact that he'd chosen to wear his dress shoes rather than his boots, he stood there, listening for their music, as the other dancers moved around them.

A new song started, and it took Malcolm a second to recognize it as a waltz – it was more of a techno-something, but it did follow the rhythmic 1-2-3 of waltz timing, so he supposed –

Hoshi tugged at his hand. "Anytime you're ready, Sir."

Malcolm laughed. "Malcolm, remember?"

Hoshi shifted impatiently, although her eyes showed her amusement. "Anytime, Sir Malcolm."

Malcolm bowed, as is proper for a knight. Then he stepped forward and led her into the dance. The crowds parted – they'd have to, because this dance travelled – as they spun around the floor. It really had been some time since he'd done this, but the knowledge hadn't left him; it was still in his body.

He'd danced for years, when he was younger, only stopping once he'd entered Starfleet. The dance had helped his martial arts training, and beyond that, it had made his mum happy. It still came in handy at weddings and the like; although on board a starship, it was admittedly less useful. At least until now.

He knew they were gathering a bit of an audience, so he led Hoshi into a particularly showy step before bringing her out in a series of arcing turns. Thus his back was turned when it happened.

"Ah," Malcolm said, stopping dead in his tracks.

There was a collective gasp from behind him. "God," he heard someone say. Trip. That was Trip.

"Malcolm?" Hoshi said as his hand slid from hers.

Malcolm reached and touched his back, just below his ribs. His hand came back red, and he blinked at it in surprise, not quite able to process what could have happened, or even to catch his breath. He frowned down at his hand.

Firm hands grabbed him and turned him around. His vision spun. He reached out and grasped… parrots, but not orange and blue; this time, they were yellow and green. Trip must have changed his shirt. Were these some school's colours? He should ask.

"Are you all right?" Trip asked.

"Tis but a scratch," he murmured, quoting from the film they'd seen last night, or last week. He let the shirt go, leaving a red handprint behind. As his vision tunnelled, room going dark around him, he got out, "So sorry about your shirt," as he felt himself fall.

x-x

_Oh, ouch. Poor Malcolm! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for all your comments on that cliffhanger. Here's the next section. _

x-x

Malcolm peeled his eyes open and groaned. Sickbay. Again. He was getting seriously sick of sickbay. He snickered at his own bad pun.

"Malcolm?"

That was Hoshi's voice.

"Hey, are you with us?" she asked.

"Somewhat," Malcolm said. He struggled to focus, but the scene kept shifting, and he couldn't quite see past the parrots swirling around him.

"You're in sickbay."

Oh, that was Trip's voice, so the parrots – that was Trip as well. His shirt. "So sorry about your shirt," Malcolm said, feeling a sense of déjà vu as he said it. Why was he in sickbay? Ah, right. Something… the party. "I hate parties," he muttered. It seemed, every time he attended one, something bad happened. Last time, just before he'd shipped out on Enterprise, the person he'd been dating had dumped him. This time…

"Lieutenant."

…This time there had been parrots, and dancing, and…

"Lieutenant."

That was Phlox. Who promptly shone a bright light into his eyes, making him squint.

The light moved away. "Why am I here?" Malcolm asked, peering into the confusion surrounding him. He tried to get his bearings. Parrots – that was Trip. He hoped. Red dress – that was Hoshi. White smock – probably Phlox. Right.

Malcolm heard the whir and whiz of Phlox's scanner. "You've been injured," the doctor said.

"Stabbed?" he asked, not sure he was fully understanding what was going on. He thought he'd been stabbed, but that made no sense at all.

"At the party," Hoshi said. "It was an accident. Chen… the MACO… But Phlox says you'll be all right."

He remembered. This time, alas, it seems he'd been hurt. Playing at the gallant knight, only to be skewered. Drawn and quartered. Sliced and diced. "Right," he said, struggling to focus. He grabbed Hoshi's hand. "I need to tell you something."

"Okay,"

"It's important."

"Okay."

He waved her forward, and spoke when he felt her hair brush his face. "I hate parties." He let her hand go, and pointed at her in emphasis. "Remember that."

Some time later, perhaps only a moment, he felt a hand brush back his hair – Hoshi again. He'd thought she'd left.

"Get some rest, Sir."

"Sir Malcolm," he corrected. "Knight in shining armour. Ready and at your call, my lady." He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them he murmured, "I think Phlox has me on…" the rest drifted away from him. He sighed.

He thought he could see her smiling.

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_I love reviews, so feel free to tell me what you think of this so far. _


	4. Chapter 4

_Thanks (and chocolate ice cream) to all who read this. This is the last chapter. Enjoy! _

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"Ah," Malcolm said, grimacing as he slowly lowered his arm. He'd been trying for some time to get himself into uniform, but it seemed no matter which way he twisted, he simply could not lift his arm high enough to get it into the sleeve of his jumpsuit. At least his vest had some stretch to it, so he'd been in luck, there; but his jumpsuit seemed hopeless. Exhausted from even this small effort, he sat gingerly on the edge of his mattress. Perhaps he should have stopped at his vest and pants, but that was hardly suitable –

His door chime went, and he closed his eyes momentarily. He could ignore it – after all, he was half dressed. Or he could answer, and hope that whoever was there was 1) not a subordinate and 2) not Captain Archer, God, please, and 3) willing to help him put on this bloody thing.

Wishing he had some way of opening the door without having to stand, walk, or otherwise move – he'd have to get Trip on that one – he levered himself up, and took a pained step toward the door, then another, feeling every bit of his thirty two years as he triggered the door open.

Trip peered down at him, eyebrow cocked in amazement. "Are you even supposed to be up?"

"Commander, I'm –"

"If the word 'fine' comes out of your mouth …" Trip let the rest trail away as he frowned. "What are you doing in uniform?"

"Half in uniform," Malcolm said with a self-depreciating wince. He waved Trip into the room, at least in part so that he could use the wall for a moment of support without the man seeing him. He hated being in this weakened state; worse to have his friend see him struggling.

"True," Trip answered. As he strode across the small room and slumped down in Malcolm's desk chair, he added, "Phlox said you wouldn't be released for duty for at least another week, so what's up with the outfit?"

"I needed to get into it."

"You…" Trip's frown deepened. "Why?"

Malcolm stood to attention – or as near to it as he could in his current state. "An officer should always be prepared, but it had been a busy week, and…" Malcolm sighed, and flinched at the pull in his back his sighing had caused. It had been a busy week, capped by yet another major injury, this one obtained ingloriously. He'd been dancing, of all things. Someone had been cutting a cake. They'd turned, probably to watch the dancing, and he'd spun right into –

"Malcolm?"

Followed by surgery, then recovery in sickbay, and now –

"Malcolm?" Trip said, trying to catch his attention.

"Sorry, yes," Malcolm said. "The outfit I'd been wearing was the only thing I had clean at the time." He'd not had the wherewithal to manage laundry since Phlox had released him a couple of hours earlier. He'd…

…there had…

Malcolm blinked to clear his vision. He felt himself waver, and he reached a quick hand to his bookshelf for support.

Trip was at his side in a moment. "Malcolm, you're making me uncomfortable just looking at you. Could you please sit down or something, before you fall down?" A gentle hand at his elbow balanced the joking words, and Malcolm gave Trip a grateful nod as he sat down on the bed.

"I won't ask how you're feeling, because that's pretty obvious," Trip said, dragging the chair to the bedside with his foot. He sat in it, and gave Malcolm his most withering look. "Phlox let you out of sickbay with orders to rest."

"I am resting."

"This is resting?" Trip said, waving an arm to encompass the full laundry bag beside the door, the well-made bed, and the recently washed – and still drying – glassware on his shelves.

Malcolm could feel the heat creep up his cheeks. The man had a point.

Trip leaned across his knees. "Listen. If you need help – like someone to do your damn laundry – would you just call me?"

That's all he needed, Malcolm thought; to have his commanding officer doing his laundry. Malcolm was about to say so when Trip stopped him with a raised hand.

"I know what you're thinking."

"You do, do you?"

"You bet your ass I do. We've been on this ship together for what? Four years, now? Believe me, I know what you're thinking." Trip sat back with a satisfied smile. "You're thinking that it's wrong for a superior officer to do your laundry."

Malcolm blinked in surprise.

"But I'm not your superior officer." Trip gave Malcolm's state of half-dress the once-over. "At least, not right now, I'm not. Right now, I'm your friend. And as your friend, you can ask me to help with your damn laundry." He leaned forward again and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "And you have my official permission to leave your bed unmade for a week."

"Commander," Malcolm protested.

Trip raised a finger. "Ah-ah-ah," he said. "If you need me to make that an order, I'll do it, so be careful what you say next."

Malcolm couldn't help but smile. "Thank you." Then he raised a quick hand to stifle a yawn.

"Welcome," Trip said, standing. He strode to the door and grabbed Malcolm's laundry without so much as a by-your-leave. "I have to wash my parrot shirts anyway."

"Yes," Malcolm said, "I'd imagine so. Sorry about that."

Trip shook his head, waving off Malcolm's concern. "Phlox gave me your stuff – you know, what you were wearing when…" Trip hesitated, looking uncomfortable. "Chen still feels really bad about that."

"It wasn't his fault."

"I know," Trip replied. He leaned against the doorframe. "Try telling him that, though. He'll just tell you how, 'As a MACO, I should have…'"

Malcolm slid back on the bed with a pained wince, carefully settling his back against the wall. "And as head of security, I should have realized that waltzing in a crowded room while someone was cutting a cake with a knife perhaps wasn't the best option." Malcolm lowered his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "We've enough to worry about without feeling guilty over things we can't control." He looked up at Trip. "I'll talk to him." He made to shift to the edge of the bed.

"But not right now," Trip said, holding up a hand to still Malcolm's movement. "Get some sleep. You look like you could use it."

"That bad, eh?"

"You'd win no beauty contests, that's for sure." Trip said. He triggered the door, and then stood in the opening. "Night, Malcolm," he said firmly, his tone about as close to an order as Trip ever got.

Malcolm frowned and glanced at his watch.

"Something you'd like to say, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm looked back at Trip, puzzled. "It's 09:00."

Trip raised an eyebrow. He stood there, unmoving.

Damn, the man could be stubborn when he wanted to be. Malcolm did the only thing he could – he gave a wry salute. "Sir. Yes, Sir."

"I'll check in with you later," Trip said.

Malcolm took that to mean that he'd best look as if he'd slept during that time. As the door closed behind Trip, Malcolm let himself lie back on his bed, uniform and all. His mind spun: he needed to talk to Chen; he should check with Phlox, get the shirt and jacket his sister had sent him cleaned and repaired – no, wait; Trip said he had them… he truly felt badly about Trip's shirt, and he supposed he owed Hoshi a dance. Some knight he was.

Those thoughts swiftly spun away as he felt himself slipping.

Maybe Trip was right. Maybe he should just…

Malcolm drifted off, dreaming of dancing, gallant knights, and parrots framed against blue Florida skies.

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End

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